I woke up and treated myself to a once-in-a-decade-indulgence: a MacDonald’s Big Breakfast and Hotcakes. They did not live up to my childhood memories. I didn’t finish them.
The designer for my wedding ring worked overtime this past week to re-cast (I presume that means melt down the old ring metal and cast it into a new ring) and re-make my wedding ring, to the design I’d chosen in the display room. She delivered it to the store at about lunch time on Sunday, which was good I’d gone back to bed at ten, and it was time to get up. Julian drove me down, after we’d wandered through The Bay on Bloor to pick up his suit. The new ring was slightly tighter than before, but I can still wiggle it on and off. Provided I don’t get scleroderma or thyroid acropachy I should be good. The ladies who rang up the sale explained that I should use “hand cream” to help get it off. WTF is hand cream!? I had to ask, “Is that like, a moisturiser? For hands?” I haven’t worn jewellery since adolescence (I took out my nipple bar after two many people in night clubs brushed too close past me, causing it to catch and almost rip out of my nipple). I’m impatient to wait until Wednesday to be able to officially and not superstitiously unluckily wear it.
We were overdue for lunch by the time we’d returned to the apartments at 3 pm. We collected Dan, who’d managed to crawl out of bed, and walked around trying to find ramen. The two Japanese places on Bloor near us were closed, but we found a Korean/Japanese place open on Yonge St where we nestled in and I found a soup with glass noodles instead.
Phone meeting with the photographer
At 16:20 we’d booked a final telephone meeting with our wedding photographer.
Dan’s cousin, Fiamma, arrived as did my colleague, Albert. Then a whole bunch family friends. We went out to dinner.